


the way we got just what we were after

by somethingdifferent



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1940s, F/M, i haven't even read the books, this is a problem, who even knows anymore, yet here I AM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-19
Updated: 2014-09-19
Packaged: 2018-02-17 23:17:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2326754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/somethingdifferent/pseuds/somethingdifferent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>She took his arm and allowed him to lead her away. He didn't seem to mind the blood getting on his pristine hands, and for that, at least, she was grateful.</em>
</p>
<p>[petyr/sansa; pre-wwii au]</p>
            </blockquote>





	the way we got just what we were after

_i heard someone say_  
_we are not believers_

MOONFACE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He wasn't meant to be at the funeral. Sansa had warned him, commanded him to stay, but Petyr had insisted upon seeing the bastard lowered into the ground himself.

"To make sure he's really dead," he had reminded her, smiling, and kissed the back of her hand.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Sansa had not been the one to administer the execution, but even so, she had been the person left holding the gun. Her, she can hardly even think the word, her _husband_ was already gone now, spirited away by his cripple of a brother, and then there was her, held close and close and close by Petyr.

"I'll keep you safe," he promised, and Sansa couldn't tell if he was lying. The walls of the alley were coated in dirt. They matched the hem of her thousand dollar dress.

She took his arm and allowed him to lead her away. He didn't seem to mind the blood getting on his pristine hands, and for that, at least, she was grateful.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

_What have you done?_ Joffrey stands over her, his hand raised in a fist above his golden hair. _What did you do? You idiot, you idiot. What did you do?_

_I don't know_ , she wails, and wakes up screaming.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

It wasn't until the house, the large, ornate, wide and devouring house, that she fully grasped the situation.

"Did you - " She swallowed the words down, then coughed them up again. "Did you kill him?"

Petyr ignored her, tilting his head as he opened the drawer of the nightstand. "You weren't supposed to be there. That fool." He pulled the Bible out like the ending to a magic trick and turned it over in his hands. Sansa watched, unsure of whether to hate him or praise him for it.

"Something has to be done about that, mustn't it, sweetling?"

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

There is the funeral, and the end of the summer, and the first stirrings of war.

"But," Sansa will say, words failing her not for the first time, "hadn't they promised? That nothing would happen to us?"

Petyr will laugh, but it will be empty and hollow and cruel. "Promises," he will reply, as if it were a joke unto itself.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Aunt Lysa holds a gun to her head.

"Tell me," she screams, "I know you've slept with him, you whore! You vicious little harlot!"

"I didn't," Sansa, Alayne, whoever she is supposed to be at the moment, cries. "I swear, it was just a peck on the cheek, he meant nothing by it."

"You're lying," Lysa hisses, leaning in close. "I will cut you open. I will make you tell me."

A door opens, and Petyr appears in the frame.

"Oh," he murmurs, almost inaudibly, "I had thought you better than this, my dear."

It's unclear to whom he is speaking.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

Later, she will sit alone, in a room, embroidering, counting. First stitch, her father. Second and third, her younger brothers. Fourth, Robb. Fifth, her mother. Sixth, Arya, little lost Arya. Seventh, Jon, preparing to march at any moment. Eighth, her aunt. By the time she has counted through the list four times over, the bird is done.

She embroiders the flowers underneath, and counts. First stitch, Petyr with Joffrey's blood on his hands. Second stitch, Petyr with Lysa's blood on his hands. Third, Petyr with a gun in his hands. Fourth, Petyr with her face in his hands. Fifth -

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The party is too loud, too celebratory. England will burn, she knows this now, like Europe will burn, and the Lannisters will burn, and she would have burned. Sansa disengages herself from whoever is grasping her at the elbow (she doesn't know, she can hardly breathe with all these people here, but Petyr had insisted on introducing her as she is now, as _Alayne Stone_ , and she could hardly refuse), and walks hurriedly to the door.

Outside, in the hallway, she can hear Petyr following her, like a trailing thought on the fringes of her awareness, only occurring to her when she least desires it.

"Alayne," he calls after her, and she pretends not to hear, keeps walking. "Alayne." The first stitch, the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth, the lilacs, the tulips, the roses, the mockingbirds. His steps are louder. The first stitch, the second, the third.

At the end of the corridor, he catches her at the wrist and turns, pressing her against the wall. She is taller than him by an inch or two, but suddenly she feels smaller than anything.

Petyr leans in close, her arm still trapped against the clean lines of his suit.

"Sansa," he breathes against her neck, and for a moment allows himself the luxury of leaning up and catching her by the lips.

She closes her eyes. Opens her mouth.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

"You trust me?" he asks her once, and seems near to disappointed at the slight shake of her head. "Why didn't you tell them?"

"What do you imagine might happen to me should someone find out who I am?"

He shakes his head.

"I don't even want to think of it."

"You think you know me, then?"

When she glances up, his face is open, expectant. She did not think he could ever appear so vulnerable.

"I know what you want," she replies slowly, carefully, enunciating every word.

The embroidery lies on her bed, forgotten, the final lilac only half finished.

 

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

 

The winter is cold. Petyr holds her face in his hands and pulls her mouth to his, and she lets him because - because what else is there to do. Because it's easier not to fight. Because, and this she doesn't allow herself to think, not until the moments when she cannot avoid it any longer, she wants not to fight. He had told her he wanted everything, and, not for the first time, Sansa imagines he might be lying.

Petyr holds her in his uncalloused hands and tries very hard not to break her in two, like the ice lining the windowpanes.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
